Jeux de Hasard
by Susan M. Garrett
Summary: Phileas Fogg gambles, quite literally, once too often with his own life and the lives of his friends
1. Part 1

**TITLE: Jeux de Hasard**

**AUTHOR:** Susan M. Garrett 

**CATEGORY:** Drama, some mystical elements. 

**RATING/WARNINGS:** PG. 

**THANKS: ** No betas. As usual, I'm responsible for errors in grammar and spelling, what the characters do and say is entirely up to them. 

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 1**

From the moment he settled himself against the leather seat of the cab, Jules Verne found himself completely and utterly at ease. The collar of his new shirt didn't seem to itch as much as it had when he'd originally been measured for it; it had undergone a magnificent transformation, having passed beneath Passepartout's reliable hands into being just slightly less than wholly comfortable. Even the rhythm of the carriage, which he normally found jarring, was threatening to lull him to sleep. 

"You seem inordinately pleased with yourself," noted Fogg, seated across from him. 

He opened his eyes, his grin widening. "That dinner--" 

"Met with your approval?" 

"More than met with my approval," Jules agreed enthusiastically. Leaning forward, hands clasped together, he added, "It was . . . phenomenal." 

"So sayeth the writer." Fogg's comment was augmented by a smile - not to be taken as a criticism. He glanced out the coach window, brow furrowing. "I did think the mutton was a bit overdone. And Passepartout surely could have done better with the sauce." 

"Trust me, it was _perfect_." 

"Hmmmn. I think we should make more of an effort to educate your palate. To think that you live in the culinary capital of Europe - of the world! - and yet you've hardly set foot in any restaurant worth mentioning. Disgraceful." 

Lowering his head slightly, Jules looked out the opposite window. He'd been on the verge of thanking Fogg for this fabulous opportunity - the meal would live in his memory for some time to come, and perhaps longer in his writing - but now anything he said would sound awkward. It was always the money, his lack of money, which made it so. 

When Fogg had shown up at his room earlier that evening with a demand that he accompany him to dinner at one of the finest restaurants Paris had to offer, his first instinct had been to decline. The Foggs had been generous to him during their recent adventures - providing room, board, and appropriate dress when necessary. Even the suit he was now wearing had been given to him with the pretext of having been provided from the coffers of the British Secret Service for his proper presentation to the Queen. The money had undoubtedly come from Fogg - Jules doubted Chatsworth would have paid quite so much for proper tailoring a law student from the Sorbonne. He saw through many of the fictions meant to soften any blow to his self-esteem, accepting those offers he thought he could not decline without offense and turning back the rest as courteously as his pride permitted. 

Tonight had been different. Fogg had, in passing, mentioned that he'd offered Rebecca the use of both the Aurora and Passepartout to bring an emergency situation under control. That she'd accepted the offer and had dropped him off at his club in Paris on the way spoke volumes - Rebecca did not want Fogg present, so the danger to her person must be both imminent and extreme. That Fogg had relented and had turned up at Jules' door with a cab and an invitation to dinner meant that he was well aware of the danger, well aware of the importance of the mission, and very well aware that his presence, or Jules', on the Aurora would be more of a distraction than source of assistance. 

The aristocratic bearing, the consummate arrogance, the precision in dress and manner, and the nearly insufferable nature of the invitation - no, _command_ - to attend Fogg at dinner all were based on a justifiable concern for Rebecca's welfare. Jules could understand and forgive him that. He was honored by the thought that Fogg would find his company worthwhile. Accepting the invitation with far more grace than the manner in which it was offered was easy; he was being a friend. It would not have surprised him to accompany Fogg back to his Paris club after having dined - Fogg seemed to have obtained membership to most of the important gentleman's clubs in the world. There he would watch Fogg drink himself into oblivion, have someone arrange to get Fogg to his rooms in good fashion, and then slip back to his loft where he could contemplate his own worries about Rebecca's current mission. 

He'd been silent for too long. Jules glanced over and found Fogg watching him, then lowered his gaze again, certain that Fogg could see the worry in his own eyes. 

"I assume that your lack of experience with the finest restaurants here extends to the gaming establishments of Paris as well?" 

The comment was not meant as an insult, but a challenge. Jules knew as much, but kept his expression neutral. "I don't gamble." 

"Nonsense." The reply exited as a snort. "You play chess. You play card games, board games--" 

"But not for money, for fun." He hesitated a moment, then favored Fogg with a wan smile. "In my family, playing games for money is slightly less reputable than . . . writing for the theatre." 

Fogg laughed - the reply succeeded in its intent. "I hardly think it would endanger your immortal soul, if that's a consideration." 

"I'd like to learn, to watch," Jules corrected quickly. Because he _had_ watched Fogg once or twice upon the Aurora, when the cousins had sparred against one another in a friendly game of cards that always turned cutthroat by the time the last trick ended. He'd joined them in a few games as well to pass the time, but as if by prior agreement wagering had never entered the conversation. "I may need to write about a gamester, someday." 

"Remind me - I've an extra copy of Hoyle you might want to borrow. He provided the best piece of gaming advice I've ever read." 

"Which is?" pressed Jules, his mind already clicking into research mode. 

"'When in doubt, win the trick.'" Fogg glanced out the cab windows. "Blast, we're already halfway to the club. Would you mind--?" he turned toward Jules, "if we stopped here? There are a half dozen gaming parlors in the vicinity. It's not an unpleasant evening for a walk." 

With a gesture to show that he didn't care one way or another, Jules gathered his coat around him. Fogg was right - it wasn't all that chill for a January evening and after a dinner as they'd had, a walk in bracing air might awaken him from the pleasurable stupor to which he'd been ready to succumb. 

He paid little attention as Fogg conversed with the driver. As the cab shuddered and bounced to a halt, he exited the far door onto the street, then walked around the back of the carriage. The cobblestones were cleaner than they might have been after a day of horse traffic and Jules had little problem making his way to the curb, but he hesitated at the rear of the cab, hearing someone call his name. 

The voice was familiar enough for him to look up - although there couldn't be anyone in this fashionable district who might know him with the exception of a lecturer at the Sorbonne, or a business acquaintance of his father. 

The last thought gave him pause and he looked over the area more thoroughly. No one would know that he was accompanying Fogg on a tour of Parisian gaming salons. If he didn't gamble himself, what could it hurt? His father might grumble about endangering his reputation by even stepping into such a place, but who of his father's friends, or his professors, would recognize him in these clothes? 

"Jules?" 

Yes, the voice was familiar. Just - there, in the shadows, the next street over, he recognized the sash and apron of the university, of-- 

"Arago," he whispered, first in recognition then repeated in joy aloud, "Arago?" 

The cab was still in place, Fogg on the other side paying the driver. He'd not told his mentor of the wonderful things that had happened to him - and not such wonderful things - since the Foggs and Passepartout had befriended him and he'd been invited to travel in the Aurora. He'd not seen Arago since . . . before the incident with the mole, when he'd been kidnapped and tortured by the disembodied head that spoke to him, commanding him to see the future. He'd been certain he was going mad and Arago had told him to rest, to forget, to write . . . . 

Arago was beckoning him forward into the darkness. Jules cast another glance at the cab over his shoulder, then ran onward. "Arago?" 

Another cab came by, forcing him against the wall of a building opposite. Jules came to the corner, turned into a side street -- 

His mentor was gone. 

"Jules - here." 

Arago was standing at the mouth of an alley, a stone's throw from him. Jules ran to him, taking his hand as it was offered. 

"Arago! Where have you been? I've got so much to tell you." 

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," said Arago kindly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. The hand remained as he pulled Jules further into the alley, placing his back against the wall. "But that has to wait for another time. There's something you must do tonight - lives are in the balance." 

He was used to hearing this sort of thing now - not from his mentor, but from his friends. "Lives? What are you talking about? What can I do?" 

"You'll know when the time comes." When Jules stared blankly, Arago patted his shoulder again. "Continue down this street - there's a club, very special, very private. They'll let you in." 

"Why would they let _me_ in? I'm not a member of any--" 

"Trust me, Jules." Arago squeezed his shoulder, then smiled. "Your friend is calling. I should like to meet him." 

"Fogg - yes." Jules turned his head, hearing Fogg calling him from the street. 

"Verne? Where the devil have you gone?" 

"Here!" He touched Arago's shoulder, saying, "Wait right here, I'll get him." Then Jules dashed out onto the boulevard and down the street to the corner, where their coach had stopped. "Fogg?" 

Catching sight of him, Fogg met him in the center of the street, then grabbed his shoulder and pushed him against a wall almost too roughly as a horse-drawn cab rattled by. "Are you mad?" accused Fogg, even before the cab had completely passed them. "Where did you get to? I turned to pay the driver and you were gone." 

Fogg was expecting an answer and at first Jules had none to give. He'd seen Fogg in full-fury before at his own peril - cold, horribly angry, fearsome - and this was somewhat different. There was worry threaded through the anger and it left him speechless. 

Fogg released the hold on Jules' coat, then brushed down the crumpled cloth quickly as if the wrinkles accused him. "A child of four knows enough not to run in front of a cab," he said tersely. 

"I saw a friend - my mentor from the Sorbonne, Arago." When Fogg raised a suspicious eyebrow and looked around, Jules added, "Over there. I know I must have talked about him. He'd like to meet you." 

"You've never mentioned anyone by that name," noted Fogg. He held himself aloof for a moment, then passed Jules his hat. "You left this in the carriage." 

"Thank you." Jules took the hat somewhat guiltily - careless of him to have left it, especially since someone else had paid for it. He placed it firmly on his head and gestured toward the boulevard at the corner. "He's waiting - there." 

"Let's go meet your friend, then. Wait." Fogg dropped a hand to his shoulder to halt him, then adjusted Jules' hat properly. "There. Now do _attempt_ to behave like a civilized gentleman, Verne, instead of a street urchin." 

No matter how mild the tone in which they'd been spoken, the words stung. Jules reached up to readjust his hat as it had been in a gesture of defiance and headed for his destination at what Fogg would not doubt declare to be an ungentlemanly pace. That Fogg matched him, walking stick and all, managing not to look the least nonplused only annoyed him further. But his annoyance abated in the face of worry as he approached the mouth of the alley, called, "Arago?' and received no reply. "He was here a moment ago. I swear to you, Fogg, I spoke with him--" 

Fogg placed a hand out at chest level, stopping him. "Wait." The hand dropped to his side yet he held it slightly away from his body. 

Jules recognized the gesture, his friend was armed and a gun could appear in that hand at a moment's notice. He did as he was asked, but took a moment to glance at the walls of the buildings beside him and the street beneath his feet. Even in the dim glow of the streetlights beyond he could see no sign of a disturbance. 

As he finished, Fogg approached, his steps still cautious and eyes scanning this way and that. "Nothing. You?" 

"No. He was here. I _know_ he was here." 

"Perhaps you're mistaken about the street--" 

"No. It _was_ here." Recognizing a note of petulance in his own tone of voice, Jules sighed and gestured down the street. "Arago said there's a club we should visit, down that way. It's supposed to be private, but that they'd let us in." 

"Did he?" Fogg stepped out of the alley and into the street again. He shaded his eyes from the street lamps and looked up. "Where are we?" 

"The Rue du Vivant," said Verne, glancing up at the iron street sign above them. He squinted - the yellow paint was flaking, he could barely be certain of the letters. 

"Better than the Rue du Mort, one would suppose." Fogg took a step toward the boulevard where their cab had left them, then stopped. He turned toward Jules, fixing him with a steady gaze as if deciding something. "I suppose you want to visit this club, on the off-chance that your mentor--" 

"Arago." 

"That this 'Arago,'" agreed Fogg, "might have gone there?" 

"It's the only logical conclusion." Jules looked around in confusion. "I don't know where else he could have gone." 

"What concerns me is where he might have come from." 

Jules only caught a hint of the words, his attention concentrated on the alley behind them. "What?" 

"Nothing." Fogg gestured with his cane down the street. "I would suggest we continue, then." As Jules fell into step beside him, Fogg asked, "You, uh, wouldn't happen to have asked the name of this club, would you?" 

"No." 

"I thought not." 

There'd been no accusation, no recrimination in Fogg's tone, yet Jules still bit his lip in frustration, feeling like a proper fool. "All right - I should have asked him the name of the club. I should have stayed with him until you found us. I shouldn't have left the cab without telling you where I was going--" 

Fogg caught his shoulder, stopping him. "We have no proof that anything's happened to your friend." 

"And nothing _would_ have happened to him if I'd stayed with him." 

"You don't know that." 

He shook off Fogg's hand angrily and continued down the street. "No, but you do. You know everything. You know when to stay and when not to stay and how long to stay. You know where to go and where not to go. You know how to dress and how to talk and how to act." He threw his hands up in the air. "I don't. I don't know any of this. I don't know what to do. I'm only a law student. I'm only a writer. I can do _nothing_ right." 

Again, he found his back against a stone wall, the placket of his coat caught in Fogg's hand. "You're a writer and a law student; you have a logical mind, common sense, and a frighteningly inventive imagination - that should prove sufficient for most circumstances. You also have an unerring capacity for walking directly into danger without having any idea that you're at hazard, a situation in which the former sterling qualities are doomed to prove inadequate. Is that quite clear?" 

Hearing that odd mixture of threat and worry in Fogg's voice, Jules stared back at him wide-eyed and nodded, then added, "Yes," quietly. 

"Good." Fogg released him, but didn't step away. "I have reason to suspect your life might be in danger." 

Small pieces began to fall into place - the demand to accompany Fogg to dinner, the reaction when he'd disappeared from Fogg's sight, followed by the incident with the cab, the worry that he'd automatically assumed was for Rebecca . . . . 

"In danger?" Jules echoed, trying the taste of the words. He had looked away for a moment as the pieces had clicked into place and now he looked back, saw Fogg's appraising glance again. "What kind of danger?" 

"An attempt on your life." Fogg took another step back and away, his gaze averted as he rubbed his lips with his fingers. "I don't know how. I don't know why. And - before you ask - this isn't a piece of intelligence gathered with or without Chatsworth's knowledge. It's just a . . . feeling." 

Ever since he'd realized he was a target for the League of Darkness, there'd been a small, quiet place in his brain in which he'd hoarded his fear. Why they should want him was beyond his understanding. That they _did_ want him, or something from him, was no longer a matter of argument - it was fact. When attending lectures or when in a bistro with his school friends, it was too bizarre to bear consideration. When aboard the Aurora, he was protected, or at least in a place in which he knew he could fight among his protectors and allies. 

Alone in his room, with only a candle and his notebook and a third of a bottle of cheap wine, behind a door that didn't quite lock and a window through which a number of people had made entry . . . that's when the fear came out. At the bistro he disregarded the danger, on the Aurora he could be brave and even angry enough to defend himself, but when he was alone in the near darkness it was so very difficult to understand. It was so very hard not to be afraid. 

"This club to which we're being directed could very well be a trap," explained Fogg. 

"The League?" 

"I don't know. This could be nothing - a false alarm, an undigested bit of mutton . . . ." Fogg shrugged dismissively. 

It was his turn to watch Fogg, appraising every movement, every twitch of an eyelash. "You stayed in Paris to watch over me, instead of going with Rebecca." Jules paused, waiting for confirmation - Fogg's lack of an answer was sufficient unto itself. "Because she can protect herself and I can't." 

"Because she's well aware of the danger she's facing," corrected Fogg. "And you aren't." 

"Arago said--" Jules hesitated, as Fogg's gaze moved back to him, "Arago said there was something I had to do tonight, that there were lives in danger, no--" Again he paused, correcting himself, fighting for the right words. "That lives would be in the balance." 

"One of those lives could be yours," warned Fogg. 

"Or yours." 

The careless shrug was expected; the words that followed were not. "The decision is yours - stay or go?" 

Fogg was giving him an opportunity to ignore the matter. They could return to Fogg's club - there could be no danger there, short of a lack of cognac or claret. They could return to his loft, where Fogg would no doubt stand guard, whether in his room or, having been dismissed, in the street below. He was being offered comfort and safety, in lieu of danger and fear. 

Jules was not alone in his room, scratching dreams into a sketchbook by candlelight; he was standing on a Parisian street, worried for the safety of a friend and mentor, accompanied by yet another friend and mentor. The latter was quite different from the former in many ways, not the least of which was that he was heavily armed and capable of inflicting no end of damage on anyone who might attempt to attack them. And who, in addition, seemed to have more faith in his courage and abilities than he could dare to dream of himself. 

"I'm not afraid," he said aloud, surprising himself - he sounded as if he actually believed it. 

Fogg's smile was grim, as if that was the answer he'd anticipated. "I assume this means we continue to this club your friend mentioned?" 

"Do we have a choice?" 

"There's always a choice. The trick is knowing what to choose and when to choose it." Fogg straightened his right arm and a gun appeared in his hand. He checked the weapon, then offered it to Jules, holding it flat on his palm. 

Jules took the gun, opened his coat to tuck it into an interior pocket, and they headed down the Rue du Vivant. 

**** 

End of Part 1 

**** 


	2. Part 2

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 2**

The building looked more like a gentleman's club than a casino, with no beckoning lights, music, or common street custom that usually attended such places. The sign above the door was well painted, the gilt shimmering in the gaslight lamps, which stood to either side - Jeux de Hasard. 

A glance of confirmation at Verne, who nodded slightly, and they headed up the steps. 

It had not been Phileas' intention at any point of the evening to let Verne know of the sense of impending dread that had awakened him at some godforsaken hour of the morning. He'd sat bolt upright in bed, a wave of anger, horror, and impotent rage still lingering from the dream, if that's what it had been. There'd been no cry from him to awaken Passepartout or the other servants, but his breathing had been labored, his heart pounding with unexpected fury in his chest. He'd sat there for some time, abed in his nightshirt, and tried to reconstruct the dream to discover why this nightmare should prove different than any of the more common ones that afflicted his sleep. 

There was no context in which to place the image - turning at a cry, an unknown voice holding warning, only to see Verne crumble to the ground. There had been no movement from his friend, no speech, and only a ghastly pallor that had come over him like a fog drifting in from the sea. There was even a memory of some sensation, of the warmth of life already having been drained from the body in that second's fall, touching a hand that was as unfeeling and insensate as any inanimate object. And then rising, filled with righteous anger and fury, raging against himself for having been deluded, for having trusted-- 

Who? 

At breakfast, Rebecca had returned from a late meeting with Chatsworth and had tentatively requested the loan of the Aurora and Passepartout for what she claimed was a tedious responsibility that was urgent enough to be handled immediately. He'd all but shocked her with his simple agreement - yes, she could take the airship and his valet with no questions asked, but she must first deliver him to Paris. Extraordinary, his acquiescence, and she'd pressed him on it, but when he would give no detail - for there was no detail to give - she'd returned to her own dire concerns regarding the fate of nations. 

Passepartout had been more difficult to shake, and yet that had been accomplished as well. There were questions about where to dine, was Verne's good suit aboard and could it be prepared, the club to be notified of his arrival. Those details, at least, could be understood, dealt with in a timely manner, and put to one side. 

It had all gone according to plan. Dinner had been superb and the young author had taken full advantage of the experience. To follow such a meal with a visit to a place of gaming he would not have considered a danger. Until he had finally broken through the cab driver's provincial French enough to complete the payment for the hire, turned, and found that Verne had disappeared. 

His heart had gone into this throat at that moment, to find his plans in such disarray and to lose sight of Verne so easily. Had the carriage passing on the other side of the street taken him? He'd left his hat in their cab - Phileas confiscated that immediately. And then to see Verne running toward him across a street, with a carriage heading in their direction? 

There'd been no harm done - he'd pushed the young man to the side of the street in more than enough time, but had let his anger at himself get the better of him. Verne's description of his encounter with this missing mentor did little to soothe his nerves. That was followed upon by Verne berating himself for not being more careful, for not doing as he should. 

It occurred to him that Verne would need to be watchful of his own life, should this formless, dread forecast come into reality. And so Phileas said what he'd not intended, saw the alarm flare in Verne's eyes, then watched that ingenious mind trip from conclusion to conclusion as easily as a child used stepping stones to cross a brook. Unnerving, how Verne could rightly catalogue the intent of his actions, pulling motive and result from thin air with only the barest of evidence. He could become an investigative genius, an asset to any intelligence service or the very devil of an adversary if he'd had less heart. 

They traveled up the steps of the Jeux de Hasard against his own better judgment. Phileas should have known that having given Verne the choice of fight or flight, the young author would take the former, disregarding any risk to himself with the thought that a friend might be in peril. It was a quality that showed true strength of character. 

It was also a quality that could get him killed. 

The doorman was dressed for the weather, a livery of black advantaged by gold stripes of braid and shining buttons. He touched his hat as they approached, but made no effort to open the doors. "May I offer assistance, Messieurs?" 

"My friend and I," Phileas dipped his cane toward Verne, including him, "were looking for a game of chance. We were told we might be welcome here." 

There was a method to these things, a form of protocol as intricate as one's presentation to a crowned head. The doorman eyed them both and nodded slightly - they'd passed muster, at least in appearance. "Your names?" 

Any gatekeeper worth his braid and livery would hold a prodigious encyclopedia of names and habits in his head, ranging from regulars, to more casual custom, to those who might one day appear and wish entry. Comfortable that he was often registered on at least one of those mental lists, Phileas announced himself with a casual air, "Phileas Fogg, London." 

The doorman paused as if reviewing his records, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, you are not among our membership. Only members or sponsored guests may enter. There's a fashionable gaming club on the Rue de La Fontaine, perfectly respectable - I can direct you." 

This was not something that happened - not to him. He'd never been denied entry, anywhere . . . well, there had been that one time when he was at school, but as he'd been the worse for drink, he hadn't blamed them in the least. "Ah," he said, glancing back at Verne, then to the doorman again. "Perhaps there's been some mistake--" 

The doorman drew himself to his full height, meeting Phileas' gaze evenly. "There is no mistake, Monsieur." 

Verne climbed an extra step, flashing a quick look to Phileas as if in apology, then asked softly, "What about Verne? Jules Verne?" 

"Really, Verne," said Phileas quietly, already half-turned and on his way down the steps, "this is ludicrous. We'll simply have to--" 

"Jules Verne?" echoed the doorman. 

Phileas turned, hearing the acceptance in the tone of the man's voice and finding it seconded by a smile and a slight bow from the doorman. "Yes, Monsieur Verne, you're expected." He opened the door, then glared down at Phileas. "This gentleman, he's with you?" 

"Yes, he's with me." Verne's grin verged on insolence. He nodded his head toward the doorway. "Come on, Fogg." 

There was no point in casting anything like a withering glance toward the doorman - Phileas doubted the man would have exhibited any reaction other than perfect aplomb. As it was, he sighed and followed Verne up the steps into the club, nodding as the doorman touched his hat as a passing courtesy. 

Another liveried servant in the antechamber collected their coats, hats, scarves, and gloves with a precision so elegant it bordered on the mechanical. The button on Verne's glove wouldn't cooperate - the attendant stepped forward to assist him. Such a situation would normally bring out a shy awkwardness in him, but Verne continued to seem insufferably pleased with himself. 

"You do realize," warned Phileas, after they'd finally freed Verne from his glove and the door to the club opened before him, "that this may very well be an elaborate trap?" 

The sensible words seemed to deflate Verne's elation immediately. He sobered and glanced at Fogg. "Arago said the club was private, but that they'd let me in. I hadn't even thought--" He swallowed and looked away. "We were expected." 

"_You_ were expected," corrected Phileas. "Watch your step, stay close to me, and don't eat or drink anything offered to you." 

It was common sense to anyone who had served as an agent on assignment. Never having had that experience, Verne bristled visibly under the stricture, but made no comment, which Phileas hoped would mean his warning would be heeded. They walked into the club and paused just beyond the doorway, surveying the area. 

The ceiling was at least fifteen feet, arches partitioning Italian frescos that had been painted in a classical style. A crystal chandelier hung at the very center of the room - the massive thing must have weighed several stone - with small chandeliers ringed around it like petals edging the center of a flower. For all of the reflective crystal and the gaslights on the walls, the room was actually very dim. 

The furnishings spoke of quality and elegance - though tables were covered with baize cloths, the table legs and chairs were lacquered and gilt, again in an Italian style. The cashier's booth seemed constructed entirely of marble inlay, matching the areas of floor not covered by thick rugs with fanciful patterns and muted colors. If one looked at the patterns for too long, it was almost as if they moved. 

There were groups of chairs and tables, where couples and groups conversed amiably between play. The game tables seemed less crowded together, with fewer onlookers than Phileas had found to be the norm in French casinos. He was used to noisy affairs, with glitter and gloss and color, equal measures of false bravado and too-loud voices accompanying the gain and loss of fortunes. The glitter was here, and the smell of smoke from the gentlemen's cigars, but the gaiety was lacking. 

Although evening dress seemed to be the style, there were various countries represented - a woman in a kimono batted her eyes and hid her laughter behind a fan as she joked with a uniformed Hussar. He could not easily tell at a glance who was winning and who was losing, unusual in itself. Everything was elegant to a fault, but at the core of the ambiance was a sense of . . . not danger, perhaps resignation? Beneath even that was a layer of sound more comforting in its familiarity - the shuffle of paste decks of card, the clatter of bone dice from a leather cup, and the spin of a wheel. 

A hand touched his arm and he started, finding the slim feminine fingers in a green glove belonged to a striking redhead with flashing eyes. "Phileas Fogg, yes? I saw you last in London." 

Her hair was like flame and drawn over her naked shoulder to the front of her décolletage; it made Rebecca's own tresses seemed pastel in comparison, which was not easily done. The gloves and dress matched her eyes, the dress not in the English fashion, the neckline too low for misty evenings and garden parties, but a welcome distraction none-the-less. Her features were fine, the skin an olive color faded to an agreeable pallor. Although she looked familiar - the accent was Italian - certainly, he was at a loss to attach a name. It was not like him to forget a beautiful woman. 

She tapped his arm with her fan in a playfully chiding manner. "And you do not remember me? Oh, these gentleman!" Her later comment was addressed to Verne, on whom it now seemed her attention had been fixed from the start. "Introduce me to your friend." Before he could move forward to take the initiative, she gave her hand to Verne, announcing, "You may call Bella, Lady Bella. I think I should like that." 

He kissed her fingers lightly, glancing sideways at Phileas as he did so as if checking to make certain that his actions were correct and proper. His eyes however, were fixed very much on the lady in question as he told her, "I'm Jules Verne." 

"Charming." When Verne released her fingers, she touched them to his chin, turning his head slightly as if inspecting his features. "And French. I do so like the French - they take such pleasure from a gamble, losing their souls and laughing all the while." She flicked her gaze momentarily back toward Phileas. "Surely you know the proverb, Signor Fogg?" 

"'There are two great pleasures in gambling, that of winning and that of losing,'" he quoted. 

"Oh, but in the English it sounds less romantic, less inspiring." Even her minor displeasure could not lessen the brightness of her smile. Her hand moved to Verne's arm, as if claiming it. "Come, gentlemen, you're here to gamble, aren't you?" 

Phileas moved himself between them, capturing Lady Bella's arm on his own and favoring her with a careful smile. "That depends entirely on the stakes, dear lady." 

She laughed as if charmed and completely unsurprised by the maneuver. "Now I remember why I like you, Signor Fogg - you don't concede until the turn of the final card. And even then . . . ." 

When she tried to pull away, he resisted, holding her arm close to his body. Her eyes were still sparkling, the shot of fire within them subsiding after a momentary struggle. "All right," she announced in a graceful concession, by placing her left hand over the hold he had on her right, "I'll favor you for the moment. But only for the moment." 

Phileas lifted her hand to his lips, but was well aware of Verne moving close to his right side, commenting sharply, "An old friend?" 

He didn't know how to answer - she was so familiar and yet he'd never danced with her before, or attended a dinner party beside or across from her. There was something about the Lady Bella that brought to mind a number of gambling parties and salons, the most recent being three weekends ago. Seven hours of whist in a number of sittings with a gruff landed gentleman had netted him a decent sized acreage in Shropshire, a townhouse in Bath, and part ownership in a land freight concern. Had she been present at that house party? There had been so many people there . . . but he would have remembered her hair and those eyes. 

Verne was still there, trying not to seethe at having lost the lady's immediate attention. "What of _your_ friend?" asked Phileas sotto vocce, as Lady Bella called greetings to a passing couple. "Do you see him anywhere?" 

Looking away guiltily as if he'd forgotten his worry at his friend's disappearance, Verne said, "No. But this isn't the type of place we'd find him. Arago isn't--" 

"The cards are waiting, signore. And see - the table is opening there for you." 

Phileas followed the Lady Bella's elegant gesture toward a table at the rear of the room. Before he could do more than appraise the distance, Lady Bella had begun to guide him to the table and there was no polite way to disentangle himself from her hold. Phileas glanced quickly over his shoulder to Verne, making certain the author didn't stray, but he was following in their wake without any trouble. 

It was only as they reached the table that Phileas had a chance to examine the dealer. It was a woman - not such an oddity in the French gambling establishments that he'd visited in the past. Her dress was more formal and less revealing than the Lady Bella's, black with sleeves, insets, and lining of red lace. The veil, which reached from her small black cap to her chin, was thin and fine, having the precision of a netting so that he could also make out the wide dark eyes that were fixed on the table before her. Her lips were red and full, moving slightly as if she spoke a silent prayer when the cards were turned. 

They were spectators for the moment, an old man having the only chair across from the veiled woman. Neither the dealer nor the player had more of a stake on the table than a black rectangular chip, about the size of a playing card, which appeared to be made of stone. The player cut the cards gravely, then passed the pack back to the dealer with a nod. Their hands never touched - she waited until he left the pack before her, then her gloved fingers placed a single card face down before each of them, with a second card face up. 

"Vingt-et-un," explained Phileas softly, for Verne's benefit. "The object is to reach a score of twenty-one from the visible pips, or at least surpassing the dealer's total." 

"If the score is higher than twenty-one?" 

"The dealer takes the trick." 

The chatty Lady Bella had grown quiet. Although her arm still rested on his, Phileas realized that she'd turned her face away from the game, as if she were intent upon the marble veins that ran through a column set in the far wall. 

There was a ten of spades on the baize cloth before the old man. He flipped the covered card to reveal a four of hearts. He held his hand above the second card and tapped his fingers onto the table once. 

The dealer reached across, placing a new card face up - an eight of spades. 

"Twenty-two," breathed Verne beside him. 

Phileas could do little more than nod. The old man stared down at the cards before him as if in disbelief. He picked up the small rectangular chip, slid it across the table with a trembling hand, and then pushed back his chair. His bow was elegant, if a trifle unsteady and the dealer bowed back to him. 

The old man stumbled as he moved around them. Phileas took a step to provide assistance, but Verne was faster, catching the man's arm. 

"Are you all right, monsieur?" 

The old man straightened, patted Verne's hand as if in thanks, then escaped his grip. As he walked through the club people moved from his path, but whether their courtesy was born of respect or revulsion, Phileas could not immediately say. 

His attention was drawn back to the table as the dealer withdrew a small box covered with red leather. She placed it on the table and opened it, setting both the chip from her stake and the old man's chip into the box. Her movements were precise, almost reverential as she closed the boxed with gloved fingers, slipped down the clasp, and set it on a small table that stood to her left. 

"It's your seat, signore," whispered Lady Bella. 

He looked down at his hands, then reached into his pocket. "I've no chips - could these be exchanged--" 

"This is the only stake you need at this table." 

Lady Bella pressed one of the small, black stone chips into his hand, then smiled up at his confused expression. She touched her lips to his cheek and whispered, "Have no fear, signore - I'm with you . . . for the moment." 

The chair in which he sat was a large and heavy thing - solid wood, with red velvet cushions at the seat and the back. It was far from uncomfortable and seemed to fit him perfectly, as if it had been made for him. Lady Bella stood behind him - he could smell her perfume and felt her hand resting on his shoulder - while Verne stood to his right. 

"Mr. Fogg." The dealer nodded toward him then seemed to hesitate, her gaze resting beyond him, on Lady Bella. "You're fortunate in your friendships." 

"Madam, have we met?" 

"We have never been formally introduced, no." There was a smile beneath the veil. "But I'm an old friend of your family - your mother, your father . . . we might have met before, but for your brother's intervention." Her hands swept across the cloth, pulling all of the cards to one side, then deftly tapping them into place. 

"My brother never mentioned--" 

Phileas stopped himself, voice falling silent as she lifted a box from the table on her right. Bound in black leather, it looked similar to the box into which she'd placed her winnings from the last trick. The clasp was raised, she reached into the box to remove a chip and set it on the table, and then the box was closed. It remained to her right, resting on the baize cloth. 

"You must place your stake on the table," said Lady Bella, reaching across to take his right hand. 

Shaking away her grasp, he looked down at the black chip in his palm. It was smooth but warm, unlike any finished stone he'd ever encountered. Marble perhaps - the striations seemed to run through it, lines of white and red and gold, perhaps silver, too. And then his fingers found the letters incised on the surface. 

Phileas Fogg. 

He straightened in his chair, a chill running the length of his spine as he felt all that he had been, and was, and would be gathered in that stone. His eyes fastened on those of the woman across from him - she was watching him through her veil. It moved slightly from her face, as if she were laughing softly. 

"Fogg, what's wrong?" 

Verne placed a hand on his right shoulder and drew close. Phileas swallowed, fighting back the urge to shout at him, to tell the writer to run for the door and not look back - but he couldn't quite form the words. It would be pointless, really, to make such a scene. Verne could be counted upon for his loyalty to his friends above all else, even one who'd misused him in the past. Verne wouldn't leave without him. 

Which meant, unfortunately, that Verne would never leave this place, for Phileas had little hope of leaving himself. The marker in his hand was his own life. 

He'd played with those stakes before and won each time, no matter how determinedly he'd tried to lose. The thought of losing didn't frighten him. The thought of finally making the acquaintance of the lady who sat across from him frightened him even less - he'd flirted with her often enough. But there was the chip beneath the dealer's hand to consider, the stake with which she'd play. 

"May I?" he asked, holding out his left hand, to view his opponent's stake. 

They were sitting less than a hand's breath apart - he could have reached across and placed his palm flat against the hollow of her throat. Her gaze dropped to his hand and she picked up the chip, but held it out for him to see; it seemed he wouldn't be allowed to claim it, not unless he won the trick. 

The words were difficult to decipher, until her gloved hand turned the chip slightly, so the light reflected from the letters and revealed them. 

Rebecca Fogg. 

It was only then fear entered his heart. 

****** 

End of part two 

****** 


	3. Part 3

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 3**

The presence of Lady Bella was proving to be a distraction. As often as Jules reminded himself that Arago should be here somewhere and must be found, there was always the Lady Bella's dazzling smile to disrupt his search and tangle his thought processes. That Fogg had stepped between them and captured both the Lady's attention and her seeming favor annoyed him, a purely masculine point of pride. Fogg was the gentleman in his element, while he was just a poor law student, after all. It was something he should have expected 

The card game they watched was somewhat familiar - it was French and he'd seen sailors play it down on the docks in Nantes. The rules seemed simple enough. The player lost, rose . . . but nearly fell as he'd left. Jules had caught his arm, received the muffled words of thanks and stared after the man for a long moment, wondering if he'd seen tears in the old man's eyes. He felt cowed, as if he'd witnessed a tragedy, a personal story that had not ended happily, and yet he'd been unable to intervene. 

Fogg, of course, assumed the player's seat. The Lady Bella hovered so closely over him, Jules wondered if Passepartout would receive special instructions about the laundering of Fogg's garments. Rebecca's reaction to Fogg's frequent inamoratas hadn't escaped his notice - she'd hardly miss the perfume. There wouldn't be a scene but she had ways of wreaking revenge that Jules was only beginning to recognize and, if truth be told, found some amusement in watching. 

Of course, when Rebecca and he were out together, she would always point out the qualities of this girl or that as they passed. Her words were always soft and teasing - he'd be forced to find some sort of a jest or something to distract her to avoid blushing. If he ever showed up at the Aurora with his jacket smelling of strange perfume, she'd most likely congratulate him. That would hurt worst of all. He'd have to take care that never happened. Perhaps he, too, should have a word with Passepartout about perfume and clothing? 

Fogg's sudden intake of breath startled him. Jules placed a hand on his shoulder, asked what was wrong-- 

The tilt of the chip in Fogg's hand showed a name - Phileas Fogg. Jules glanced up in bewilderment, then across the table as Fogg asked to see the stake for which he was playing. 

That Rebecca's name was on the chip baffled him. How could this sleight of hand have been managed? He tightened his grip on Fogg's right shoulder, leaning close to whisper, "You're right - it's a trap." 

Fogg didn't move at first - in fact, he'd gone quite pale. He dropped the hand with the chip to the table; his eyes were still fixed on the marker the dealer held for his inspection. "Not so much a trap," he said softly, "as a chance." 

"A chance to what?" Jules looked around the room, but the only exit was the door by which they'd entered. With luck they could make it that far. 

"A chance to save Rebecca's life." 

"What?" Jules glanced down - the dealer had lowered the chip to the baize cloth, using her fingertips to set it directly between herself and Fogg. "We can still leave," he whispered. "I don't see Arago, he's not here. We're armed - I doubt they'll try to stop us--" 

Chuckling under his breath, Fogg shook his head. "I can't leave. They knew that much when they let us walk in here. I can't leave without trying to save her." 

"You're not making sense," declared Jules. He frowned at Lady Bella, who was standing behind Fogg's chair, her hand on his left shoulder. She was elegant and as silent as a sphinx, her eyes watching Fogg's hands. 

The dealer opposite proved to be as much of an enigma. She seemed not even to know that he was present. And then, as he thought that, her eyes met his through the veil. 

A shiver ran through him, from his neck to the base of his spine and back again. He gulped air, might have stepped back if he'd not been holding so tightly to Fogg's shoulder. He saw her lips move, heard the whisper of his name pass across them like the skittering of dried leaves down an empty street. Only when she looked away was he able to breathe again, able to swallow. 

But her glance had moved back to Fogg. She nodded toward Jules, saying, "He shouldn't be here." 

Fogg glanced up at him and Jules removed his hand from his friend's shoulder. He forced what he hoped was a brave smile, but feared it might be rather sickly. Why had a simple glance and a whisper from the veiled woman so unnerved him? 

"If he leaves," said Fogg, watching Jules with careful eyes, "may I stay to continue the game?" 

"Of course." 

Fogg's gaze had never wavered. "Go." 

"No. Not without you." Jules glanced around the room again - all attention seemed to be centered on them, except that of the Lady Bella, who was still watching . . . not Fogg's hands, but the cards just beyond them. "It's a trap." 

"Of course it's a trap. If you stay, they'll catch you in it, too." Fogg rose to his feet, the marker forgotten on the table as he faced Jules. "I can't leave - this is my only chance to save her." He glanced over his shoulder at the dealer. "How long do we have?" 

"Midnight," answered the veiled woman, in a voice that sang of wood smoke on an autumn breeze. It was an automatic gesture, actually comforting in being so commonplace - Fogg checked his watch. Snapping the case shut and returning it to his pocket, he fixed Jules with an even stare. "Time enough to try, at least." 

"Try what?" 

"To save Rebecca's life," barked Fogg. "That's it, on the table . . . her life. Sometime tonight, she'll die. It might be a gunshot, a knife, a blow to the head, a fall--" His voice faltered for a moment and he licked his lips, looking away. "It seems odd, doesn't it - so many different ways to end her life, all with the same result. The how of it hardly matters, really. They might even hang her." 

"Fogg!" Jules grabbed the man's shoulder. "This is madness. You can't tell me that you believe--" 

Fogg turned and lifted his marker from the table. Before Jules could move, he found it pressed into his palm. 

Jules opened his lips, the words forming . . . but the warmth of the stone in his hand stopped him. He lifted it and read the name upon it. 

In that moment he knew such things as he could _never_ have known. He knew what it was like to sit in an tree on the grounds of Shillingworth Magna and chuck rotten apples at a goat chasing his brother. He knew the feel of thrusting a knife through ribs in a dark place, the weight of the body falling atop him as blood covered his hands. He knew the scent of candles on a table, accented by the drift of a lady's perfume as she leaned closer, her hand brushing his knee. He knew the loss, the agonizing pain of not being to grasp fingers that were releasing his own-- 

Jules stepped back as the stone was snatched from his hand. He breathed deeply, stared down at the ground feeling that he might faint, then looking up again, meeting Fogg's gaze as he placed the marker precisely on the baize cloth. 

"Now, tell me again how mad I am." 

"That was . . . ?" 

"Me," answered Fogg, with a grim smile. "The sum of my past, my present, and my future, if I'm to have any." He seated himself on the chair again, not even noticing the Lady Bella's hand resting once more on his left shoulder. "And that is the sum of Rebecca." 

His gaze fell on the stone that sat at the center of the table. It seemed so small. And yet, if it was all that Fogg's had been - what would he give to hold it in his palm for five minutes, instead of a few seconds? What could he learn about Rebecca that he would never know otherwise that might make a difference, that might tell him whether he would have any chance of winning her heart? 

"I can't leave," said Fogg. "I can't leave her here. Not while there's a chance." 

He felt the heat flush his face, his shame at thinking only what her stone might tell him about her - could her life truly depend on this? "And you expect me to walk away, now that I know what's at stake?" 

"That was a mistake. I shouldn't have explained." Fogg clasped his hands together and tapped them against his forehead. "If I lose, you'll risk your own life to save her, won't you?" 

"Would you have it any other way?" 

"No. You're right, of course." Fogg turned his head to met Jules' gaze, and smiled faintly. "She'll be furious." 

"Only if we lose." 

Fogg nodded. He picked up his marker, placed it at the center of the table, and asked the dealer, "If you would be so kind--?" 

The veiled woman lifted the cards in her hands and began to deal. Two cards were dealt face to the baize table, followed by an ace of hearts to Fogg and a ten of diamonds to the dealer. 

Jules held his breath as Fogg used the face card to flip over the second - a king of spades. He wasn't certain at first what the outcome had been, seeing the dealer flip over a seven of clubs to join her ten of diamonds. 

A hand on his shoulder startled him; Lady Bella slipped behind him, her hands on his shoulders, fingers softly caressing the back of his neck. "Court cards count as ten pips," she said, her breath tickling his ear. "The ace is an eleven or a single pip." 

"Then Fogg has won?" 

Her hand touched his cheek, turning his head to meet her eyes over his shoulder. "Only if her next card has greater than five pips, or is a court card." 

He turned quickly, watching the card as it fell from the dealer's hand to the table in front of her. 

A six of clubs. 

"You've won!" Laughing, Jules clapped Fogg on the shoulder. "You've won!" 

Fogg collapsed against the back of the chair for a moment, his eyes closed as he ran his fingertips over them. Then he leaned forward, took Rebecca's marker from the center of the table with two fingers and placed it on the baize before him. The second marker followed the first, in much the same fashion. Rising to his feet, he reached down as if to scoop the two markers into his hand, when the dealer asked, "What's your hurry, Mr. Fogg? Have you no time for a final trick, a last challenge?" 

Fogg froze, hand hovering above the two markers on the table before him. He glanced at Jules, who shook his head - he had no idea what the veiled woman might intend. They watched as she opened the clasp on the black box on the table beside her and placed yet another black marker at the center of play. This time they'd seen the letters on the marker as she'd placed it, the light glinting from black stone. 

Passepartout. 

***** 

End of part three 

***** 


	4. Part 4

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 4**

The relief he'd felt at his victory was driven from him by the appearance of the new marker as if he'd received a blow to the stomach. Phileas stared down at the chip, reading the name of his valet. And, so slowly that he hadn't realized he was even moving, he seated himself at the table again. 

"You can't," said Verne. "No." He turned to Lady Bella, catching hold of her hands. "Stop them. You have to stop them!" 

"Is that what you want, Verne?" asked Phileas wearily. He met the writer's eyes briefly, then reached down to touch his finger to the marker on the table that bore his own name. "If I walk away now, Passepartout dies." 

"It's wrong." Verne planted his hands on the baize, took a breath, and glared across at the veiled woman. "You have no right to do this to us." 

"I have every right," said the dealer. Though her voice was raised barely above a whisper, it was clear and cold, perfectly audible. "This is not your trick, Mr. Verne. Unless you wish to take the chair?" 

Phileas picked up his marker from the table and set it down firmly in the center of play. "Deal." 

When Verne reached for the marker, the Lady Bella caught his hands and pulled him back from the table. She seemed to have little trouble subduing Verne, whispering into his ear and running her fingers along the side of his face until his struggles stopped and his hands dropped to his sides. 

Phileas watched, concerned that he might have to intervene, but Verne's breathing seemed calmer and although his eyes were glazed, he still seemed to be aware of his surroundings. "Thank you," he said, to Lady Bella. 

She nodded in answer, but averted her gaze, refusing to look at him. 

He knew then what the result of the trick would be. 

The cards had been dealt while his attention had been on Verne, but any protest would have been foolish. A three of diamonds lay face up before him, while the dealer was showing a nine of clubs. 

He flipped the second card over - the queen of hearts. Reaching out his hand, Phileas tapped once upon the card. 

The knave of clubs landed before him. 

Twenty-three. 

He'd lost. 

The dealer tilted over her own hidden card - an eight of clubs - before reaching forward and taking each marker, setting them down on the baize before her. He felt a cold hand close around his heart as she had touched his marker, then looked up to find her smiling. 

"You still have a stake before you, Mr. Fogg. Will you wager, or give the chair to a new player?" 

He heard Verne's whispered, "No," behind him and yet he couldn't help but stare down at Rebecca's marker. His own life was forfeit - had been for some time - but he couldn't let Passepartout go so easily. Rebecca would have taken a bullet or a blade for Passepartout - she'd approve the wager. 

It was hard to lift the marker, his fingers seemed too slick to hold it or it had grown in weight since he'd last touched the stone, but Phileas placed it at the center of play. A low moan of anguish from Verne did little to steady his hands. He steepled his fingers before himself and waited. 

There were two markers before the dealer. Only now did it occur to him that it would be her choice as to the one she bet against him. He wet his lips with his tongue, opened his mouth to ask . . . and then stopped himself as he met her eyes. She reached down, picked up a marker and placed it beside Rebecca's. 

His own name was on the marker, not Passepartout. 

The cards fell to the table with the muted sound of snowflakes drifting to the ground. Phileas stared at the table and found a king of clubs before him - the dealer was showing a queen of spades. The cards had not been cut, nor had the deck been reshuffled; the odds for an ace were on his side. As long as he didn't turn over the last card, there was still a chance of winning. 

But there was a game in progress, he had to complete the trick. His heart froze within his chest as the card flipped over to reveal a king of hearts. 

The dealer held an ace of clubs. 

He'd lost the trick. 

He'd lost the game. 

He'd lost everything. 

Still, there was something in maintaining his dignity at the end. Reaching forward before her hand could touch them, he pushed the two markers toward the dealer in silence and rose from the chair. He could barely raise his eyes to look at Verne, knowing that he would see disappointment, blame, anger. 

Lady Bella stood behind the writer, her hand on his right shoulder. Verne's eyes held none of what he might have expected, save anguish . . . and hope, as well. With a nod, he passed Phileas and tried to take the chair. "My turn." 

"No." Phileas caught Verne's wrist, half-turned to block him from the chair. "You're the last - we can't lose you. They'd never forgive me. I'd never forgive myself." 

Verne's smile was hard, almost bitter. "It's my decision, not yours." 

"You've never gambled," he hissed. "You said it yourself - you don't know when to go or when to stay." 

"Then I'll need your advice, won't I?" 

"My advice?" Phileas laughed aloud and seated himself on the arm of the chair. "As if that's worth anything." He checked his watch, staring at the hands for a moment before announcing, "Too late - it's a quarter to midnight." 

"I believe our business is at an end, gentleman," announced the dealer. Rising to her feet, she lifted the red box and set it upon the table. Her gloved fingers unfixed the clasp-- 

"Time for one more trick, I should think," said a voice behind Phileas. 

He turned to find an older man wearing the robes and apron of a scholar from the Sorbonne. The white hair was somewhat wild and untamed, but the eyes were sharp and wary. He nodded gravely toward Phileas, but it was toward Verne that he turned as the young writer called, "Arago!" and nearly knocked the elder man over with the strength of his embrace. 

"Easy, Jules, easy." 

"You have to help us, Arago," demanded Verne, pointing toward the table. "You have to stop this." 

"Calm yourself - you've plenty of time." He patted Verne's shoulder almost absently, then fixed the young man with a steady gaze. "It's up to you now. But remember, you're under no obligation - it's yours to choose or turn away." 

Phileas rose to his feet and faced the older man. "You can't allow him to do this. Tell him what's at stake." 

"I know what's at stake," countered Verne angrily. "Rebecca's life. Passepartout's life. Your life." When Phileas snorted at the addition of himself to the list and turned away, Verne grabbed his arm and spun him back. "Your life was worth wagering on theirs . . . isn't mine worth as much?" 

"More, actually," said Arago, with a smile. Holding out his hand, he produced a stone marker very like the others, the difference being the color - a reddish brown, with veins of black and white running through it. Placing it on the table, he gestured Verne toward the chair. "It's up to you, Jules. You decide." 

Before Phileas could move, Verne slipped into the chair. Lady Bella flashed a smile at Phileas as she passed him and seated herself on the left arm, her fingers tracing patterns on the back of Verne's neck. 

"Take your place," said Arago, touching Phileas' arm and gesturing toward the right side of the chair, adding softly, "He needs your help now far more than he needs mine." 

Phileas caught hold of the older man's collar and pulled him close. "If anything happens to him, it's _your_ responsibility." 

Arago merely smiled. "It often is." Without any visible effort, he removed Phileas' fingers from his collar, then gestured Phileas into place with a shooing motion, whispering, "Go! Go!" 

Reluctantly, Phileas took his place at Verne's right. He felt the dealer watching him and he barely managed a mask of civility as he met her gaze. Her lips were drawn into a tight, thin line of disapproval as Verne pushed his marker to the center of the table. 

This trick was going to be anything but a convivial game of chance among friends. 

***** 

End of chapter 4 

***** 


	5. Part 5

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 5**

Jules could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His mouth was dry and Lady Bella's fingertips brushing his neck were bringing a flush to his cheeks. Not wanting the distraction, he turned his head to ask her to stop, but she flashed him such a dazzling smile he was momentarily blinded by it. 

The delay made him uncertain - the dealer made no move, but watched him. He glanced up at Fogg in question, but received only a shrug in reply. Finally, the veiled lady pushed the first of the markers before her into play, her hand then moving to pick up the cards. 

From behind them, Arago cleared his throat rather loudly - her hand paused in mid-air. She sniffed, looked to one side with pursed lips as if annoyed and then sighed. "Very well." 

The other two markers were shifted to the center of the baize cloth, until all four formed a tight, neat square. The dealer stared down at them for a moment, then looked up to meet Jules' eyes. "Are you certain this is what you want to do?" 

"Yes," he said, pleased to find his throat wasn't too dry to answer. He nodded toward the cards, shot a quick glance at Fogg, and added, "If you'd be so kind--?" tagging a final, "Please?" on the end more out of habit drilled into him as a child, than any conscious attempt to curry favor. 

It earned him a smile from her - he wasn't entirely certain whether she was pleased by his show of his manners or mocking him because of them. She tossed the cards to the table with an easy air. 

Jules felt his heart beat squarely for each card that drifted into place. The turned cards first, then the face cards - he held a five of clubs, while the dealer held a ten of hearts. 

This part he could manage, Lady Bella's light touch on the back of his neck and his scalp proving to be less of a distraction than actually remembering to breath. He flipped the hidden card to reveal a ten of clubs. He held fifteen. 

His throat grew dry again as he stared across at the dealer's hand. What were the odds that he could draw a six or less? What were the odds the dealer held a four card, or even a three or two and would be forced to draw to match or beat him if he held with fifteen? 

What were the odds he'd lose all their lives? 

Fogg had leaned down beside him. "There are at least three fives and three sixes remaining in the deck. Pull one of them and you've got a chance." 

Verne stared down at the two cards before him, raised his hand, and then touched it to his lips. He didn't know. He wasn't sure. However helpful his logic was in solving problems, however fanciful his visions might be, neither could determine how likely it was that the pasteboard thrown on the table before him might help or hinder him. 

"What should I do?" He turned his attention to Fogg and gestured down at the cards. "Tell me - what should I do?" 

In answer, Fogg took hold of his hand and tapped his finger once against the cards on the baize before him. It took him a moment to understand the significance - if this was the wrong choice, Fogg was willing to take the blame for the decision. 

He wasn't about to be released that easily. The dealer raised her head and met his gaze again. "You would like a card?" she asked, in a tone so clear that everyone in the room must have heard her words. 

Swallowing, Jules nodded, then tapped the table before him once, without the aid of Fogg's hand. 

He gained a five of hearts. 

He had twenty. The dealer was still showing only the ten. He realized he'd not thought to ask what might happen if the number of her pips matched his own. Did the dealer then take the trick? 

The dealer flipped over her second card - a three of spades. 

Jules released a breath he hadn't known he was holding as yet a third card dropped and a fourth - two of hearts and four of diamonds. With four cards, the dealer's pips totaled nineteen. 

Had he not taken the card, he would have lost. 

And he had not yet won. With an ace or a two, the dealer might yet beat him . . . . 

Her final card was a knave of spades. Twenty-nine. 

He'd won the trick. 

Jules covered his face with his hands and sighed in relief, barely feeling the kiss Lady Bella planted on his cheek. He didn't dare stand - not yet - because his knees were weak. From somewhere, a clock began to strike twelve. 

And from somewhere else, a voice whispered, "Take care." 

He dropped his hands to find the Lady Bella had left him - she was kissing Arago on the cheek as well. Jules smiled as he saw his mentor blush beneath her ardent attentions. Fogg was taken with the dealer. She had risen to her feet and had offered her his hand. He had bent to kiss it, his lips just having touched her glove. 

Jules didn't know whether it was the two words of warning or the movement of the veil that caught his attention - the dealer was lifting it back from her face with her free hand. Her lips were the color of freshly spilled blood, shining crimson. There was not that much distance between herself and Fogg. She was leaning in for a kiss, would catch him as he rose, unaware of her intent. 

Time had seemed to slow, to stop. The soft words still echoed, fixed in his brain. Although he couldn't say that it was anything other than a feeling of impending danger that compelled him to move, Jules pushed himself to his feet with one hand, the other planted firmly at Fogg's shoulder. Someone called a warning, but it was too late. The dealer's arm caught around his neck instead of Fogg's, pulling his lips to her own. 

Her kiss was cold, a brutal chill that spider-webbed through his body like the tendrils of ice that coated his loft windows in the winter. He opened his eyes at the shock of it and found that hers, too, were open. Wide and dark, they seemed even colder, swallowing his soul. 

The chair pushed back and Jules began to fall, his last thought being that he would be dead long before he struck the ground. 

***** 

End of chapter 5 

***** 


	6. Part 6

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 6**

It was as if he were trapped in the dream again - Phileas heard a cry of warning from Arago as he was pushed to one side, only to see Verne crumble to the ground. He knelt immediately beside his friend, reached out his hand, but hesitated before he touched his fingers to first Verne's neck and then his face. 

Verne's skin was cool, even cold. There was no breath present, no spark of animation, no life. It was as if all that he had been - his enthusiasm and vitality - had been drained from him, leaving behind only this shell of cold, immobile flesh. 

Arago was slowly kneeling at Verne's other side. His face was drawn, seeming ancient. He lifted Verne's left hand and held it to his chest briefly, staring down at the young man. And then he looked at Phileas. 

The eyes were grief-stricken, the words, "This was never meant to happen," hardly a comfort. 

Phileas had no use for speech, letting his eyes speak his condemnation, his anger at the old man for having forgotten himself even for a moment, for having allowed Lady Bella to leave Verne, for having led them here to this place. 

Once fueled, the anger began to grow. There was more than enough to share between this old man, who had failed in his duty, and the one who had caused this abominable thing to happen. As in the dream, Phileas rose to his feet, turned, pointed a finger at the dealer. The red box was on the table before her, open. In her hand she held the red-brown marker upon which Verne's name was inscribed. 

"Cheat!" he shouted, his cry echoing through the club with such unmitigated fury that the echo of the word set the crystal hangings on the chandelier tinkling like a chorus of angry bells. He stepped to the table, slammed his fist upon it so that the cards flew from the baize cloth and scattered as if tossed by whirlwind. "I _demand_ satisfaction!" 

"You demand--?" The dealer stared at him through her veil, as if unable to believe he'd spoken the words. He saw her lips draw into a tight, dry smile devoid of any real amusement. "_You_ demand satisfaction?" 

A sudden realization overcame him that he had just, perhaps, opened a door to something so old and so powerful that nothing on heaven or earth might control it. His bones shuddered at the overwhelming surge of his own mortality, fearing the inevitable decay into dust. His heart stilled in his chest for the barest second as if knowing that this beat might indeed be the final one. 

And yet Phileas held his ground. The fear would not be allowed to overtake him, could not be allowed to have the better of him. He moved his shoulder slightly, as if settling the line of his coat upon it, placed his hand upon his hip, and raised his chin in defiance of whatever might come. 

"_You_ demand satisfaction?" the dealer asked again, dropping Verne's marker to the table. She placed her hands on the baize cloth and leaned closer, so that Phileas might see the flicker of her dark eyelashes behind the netting of the veil. "I should _curse_ you," she hissed. "I should condemn you to outlive all of those you know and love and who love you in return. I should consign you to an eternity of gravesides, until only you will be left alone to mourn, unloved by the living, hated by your beloved dead for having ended their lives so soon." 

"Too late," said Phileas evenly, a bitter smile settling on his lips. "You've already done that, haven't you?" 

"I am _not_, as you would think, an unfounded rumor," she hissed. "Nor am I so easily dismissed. You, a _gentleman_, demand satisfaction? What satisfaction may I demand from you for having toyed with my affections for so long? You tease me, tempt me, and always, _always_ at the last you turn away. It's become farcical, a bawdy-house comedy, a conspiracy among your intimates - even your brother gave his life into my keeping so that you could continue to torment me." The torrent of words faltered, her voice trembled. "And I forgave you even that. Even that. _This_ is my recompense, Phileas Fogg. This is _my_ satisfaction for the injury you've done to me." 

He didn't quite know what to say - a woman's tears had always driven him to distraction and he _could_ see tears beneath the veil. Thank God Rebecca cried so seldom or she'd have known the power she might have over him with but the barest glitter of crystal at the corner of her eyes. 

What _was_ there to say? Her words made sense, exposing a blot against his honor of which he'd not been aware. He'd never consider the matter in such terms and, to her credit, to have refrained from calling him an outright cad showed a restraint of will that he did not himself at the moment possess. His behavior toward her had been more than unfortunate, had been, in fact, offensive. She was well within the rights of society to demand satisfaction from him. 

Reaching down to the table, he lifted his marker from the baize cloth and held it lightly in his hands. He didn't tighten his fingers around it - there was too much of himself there, too much with which he did not wish to become reacquainted, too much that was so heart-rendingly painful as to not bear revisiting. 

Yet it had been a full life, in all. 

Phileas opened his lips to speak and found them dry. He wet them with the tip of his tongue, glanced up at the veiled eyes, then down at the marker in his hand again. "To offer my life for Verne's - I hardly think the exchange would be equal. I can't give you any of the others because they're not mine to give. But I can at the very least settle the account by giving you my own, sincerely, without regret." He raised his eyes to hers, needing to speak the words from his heart so that they'd be accepted - dear God, let them be accepted. "Please accept this small token as my recompense, as my apology as a gentleman. I've wronged you." 

Carefully lifting her right hand from the table, he turned it palm up and placed his marker on her hand. There was no resistance from her as he bent her fingers over it, feeling the touch of each digit upon the stone as an icy stab of cold within his chest. His left hand caught the edge of her veil, lifting it to reveal her lips. 

They were quite lovely, really - full, crimson bright. Phileas leaned in to kiss her, continuing to lift the veil. It was almost above her eyes now, which were dark. Even through the netting, the blackness within them shone like polished obsidian - no, a deeper color, the darkest of all darknesses. 

His lips touched not hers, but the back of her gloved hand as she deftly covered her mouth, preventing his kiss. The veil fell before it had been fully raised, shielding him from an undisguised look at her face, her eyes. 

Despair coursed through Phileas as he straightened - he'd been cheated again. She'd refused his offer and his apology. She'd made him look a fool. She'd denied him her kiss. 

She'd denied him the utter, inexorable promise of the eternal darkness held within her gaze. 

He'd lost the trick. He'd failed. 

"Your apology itself is more than sufficient," she said, startling him. Reaching forward to take his hand, she opened his palm and placed his marker firmly against his skin. Drawing him closer, she whispered in his ear, "You're mine. You've always been mine. You'll always be mine." 

Her words were truly a cold comfort. She touched his shoulder as she moved around him from behind the gaming table. His hand shaking, Phileas placed his marker back on the baize cloth, leaning his weight on it for a long moment as he closed his eyes and collected himself. Such things took more out of one than he would have thought possible. 

And yet it was not . . . quite . . . done. 

He turned, still leaning one hand upon the table, not entirely certain he trusted his knees not to collapse beneath him. As the dealer approached Verne, Arago retreated, pausing briefly only to place the young man's left hand across his chest. The great black skirt of the dealer's gown floated around her like a dark sea, hoops collapsing slightly, but bobbing, wavelike, beneath the cloth as she lowered herself to the floor. She held Verne's head in her lap, one black glove supporting the back of his neck, the other lightly caressing his cheek for a moment before she lifted her veil enough to reveal her lips. 

The kiss was not long - a brief, affectionate touch at best - but the results were immediate; Verne sat upright, eyes wide and staring straight ahead, gasping like a man who'd been on the verge of drowning in too-dark waters and had just, impossibly, found the surface again. There was no recognition beyond that for a moment. He blinked, stared in horror at the dealer kneeling on the floor beside him, and then scrambled away on all fours with the cry of a frightened animal. As if caught on a tide, he washed up against Phileas' legs. He'd thrown up his arm across his eyes, had all but curled into a ball, his grip around Phileas' lower calves so desperate that Phileas was concerned for a moment that Verne might topple him. 

It took an effort and some negotiation with that unyielding, anxious grip on his leg before Phileas could kneel. Verne's soft, sporadic cries were those of a child who'd not yet awakened from a nightmare. Phileas placed his arm around Verne and found his body wracked by a trembling so intense it was a wonder his teeth weren't chattering. 

The prospect of the eternal darkness that he'd seen reflected in the dealer's eyes could never have frightened him more than this. Caught between terror and anger, he glared at Arago, who was now standing over them. "Do something, man! What's wrong with him? Has he gone mad?" 

Arago squatted beside them and touched Verne's face. Verne flinched at the contact and drew away, the crook of his arm still pressed tightly over his eyes, his face burrowing against Phileas' shoulder. And yet, as Phileas looked down, he saw that Verne's eyes were not closed, but open. 

"Can nothing be done?" 

At first, Arago didn't answer the question. He watched Verne for a moment, but didn't attempt to touch him again. Then he rose to his feet, with the assistance of Lady Bella, and walked slowly over to the dealer. 

She'd remained impassive, still sitting on the floor with her skirts billowing out around her. Her veil obscured the direction of her gaze - she might have been looking at any of them, or none of them, lost in her own thoughts, gloved hands folded demurely in her lap. 

"This gift's not for him," said Arago, gesturing toward Verne. "Take it back." 

The authority inherent in the old man's voice didn't surprise Phileas, but his lack of deference to the dealer was somewhat unnerving. To that point she had been addressed with the courtesy due her position, but Arago's words were delivered in the same tone one would use to correct a chambermaid who had improperly swept the hearth. 

If the lady in question had been perturbed by the lack of respect she'd been shown, she gave no sign. Without moving, she announced flatly, "He was warned to leave, given every consideration due him. I'm well within my rights." 

"You've abused your rights," countered Arago. He pointed toward Verne again. "And you _will_ remove this from him." 

She laughed low in her throat, a darkly chilling sound. "How shall you force me to your will, Arago? Your threats are empty." 

"My threats may very well be empty, madam, but there are others who'll be little pleased by your actions today, should they learn of them. And, by heaven, they'll see you brought to account for this fit of pique--" 

His voice had been low at the start, but Arago's words grew in volume, the power of them setting the crystals in the chandeliers shivering . . . until he stopped in mid-sentence, looked down at the floor, and slowly unclenched his fists. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, saying more softly, "You know full well he's only begun his path. We tamper with destiny at our own peril. We've been brought to the age of reason - is there any profit gained from being _un_reasonable? Please, take back the gift. Let him find his destiny unencumbered by the constant awareness of his own mortality." 

There was a pause, then the dealer lifted her hand to Arago silently. He took it, raising her to her feet. The only sound in the room was the rustle of her skirts as he escorted her to the writer's side. 

Tremors still rocked Verne, although he'd quieted somewhat. His breathing came in hesitant gasps, as if he were afraid to release a breath because another might not follow. Phileas looked up at the pair as they stood over him and found himself fascinated by the edge of the veil that covered the dealer's features. It was still swinging back and forth from her movement of her steps and if he looked closely, if he could discern the difference between flesh and shadow, he might see . . . . 

The dealer touched her hands to her cheeks, setting the veil still, as if to prevent Phileas from seeing more than she desired, although he was almost certain that her lips were smiling for an instant. Stepping forward, her cold shadow fell across them and she said, "Look at me, Jules Verne. The knowledge you've been given doesn't belong to you." 

Verne had shuddered violently when she'd spoken his name, his only other response to turn his face even further away, a plaintively muffled, "No," sounding against Phileas' suit coat. 

Phileas looked up at her, shaking his head slightly. She sighed in response, glanced over her shoulder at Arago, then turned back to them again. "Very well. Close your eyes, then." 

Again, the shaken, "No. No, I _can't_." 

The dealer moved to turn away, but Arago caught her arm. His eyes held warning for her to remain, and then he nodded toward Phileas. "Talk to him." 

"Verne?" Phileas swallowed, seeing Verne's head turn slightly at his voice. "Look at me, Verne. Just look at me while I'm speaking to you. It's only good manners, you know that." 

An odd thing to count on at such a moment, but it worked - Verne dropped the arm with which he'd been shielding his face and looked up to meet Phileas' gaze. His eyes were wide, wild with fear. 

"I'm going to ask you to close your eyes," explained Phileas. When Verne tried to cover his face with his arm again, Phileas caught hold of his chin, holding him in place. "Look at me. It's all right. Just close your eyes." 

"I can't," he breathed. "It's dark there. Fogg, you don't know - it's _so_ dark. It's forever." 

"I _do_ know," corrected Phileas and when Verne shook his head to contradict him, he dropped his hand to the writer's shoulder and nodded emphatically, "Yes, I _do_ know. I've seen it." 

Verne hesitated, some sanity returning to his eyes as he listened to the words. He searched Fogg's gaze as if to prove to himself that he was hearing the truth. 

"All I ask," said Phileas, "is that you close your eyes, just for a second. It's not the same kind of darkness, you _know_ that. It's the darkness in here," he tapped the side of Verne's temple lightly with his fingers, "where you keep those fantastic ideas of yours. You're at home in there. You know every twist and turn in there, every knickknack and geegaw. It's a wonder your head doesn't rattle when you shake it." 

The smile was faint, but it was there - so much better than that look of primal terror. "Now, close your eyes. Trust me." Phileas placed his right hand over Verne's eyes and moved it downward, feeling the flutter of lashes against his palm and fingertips. "Good. That's not so bad, is it?" 

"No," whispered Verne, eyes closed. "Not so bad." 

Phileas took his hand away and looked up, startled to find the dealer so close to him. She knelt at his side in front of Verne, then reached out her gloved hands. Her fingertips lightly caressed Verne's eyelids as she whispered, "Give me back the darkness, Jules Verne. Live without it for a little longer." 

Verne slumped against Phileas as her touch left him and she shifted back on her heels. With no small amount of dread, Phileas touched his fingertips to the writer's neck - there was a heartbeat and his skin was warm. 

"He's asleep," said Arago. He gestured toward Lady Bella, who pulled forward a gilt chair with yellow cushions, the chair in which they'd each been seated earlier having somehow shattered into wooden pieces that were scattered on the floor. 

Phileas easily lifted Verne over his shoulder, then draped him into the chair. He stood for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Verne's chest, assuring himself that the writer was breathing - he could take nothing here on face value. 

Arago touched his shoulder. Phileas glared at him and shook off the hand, but the elder man smiled and nodded toward Verne. "For a man to face death in the common course of destiny is one thing, to stare into the depths of Her eyes and gain the full knowledge of his own mortality is something else entirely. It's better that he not remember any of this." 

"Will I?" 

"Some. Enough." When Phileas frowned, he added, "You must be content with that." 

"I'm not a man who settles for being 'content,'" warned Phileas. 

"For now, you have no choice." He saw some of that earlier steel in Arago's gaze for an instant, before the old man's eyes softened as if amused by a private joke. "It's time for you to go." 

Phileas touched his fingers to his lips and stared down at Verne for a moment. "If I was certain that you knew exactly what was going to happen tonight when you led us here--" he paused, leaving the threatening words unspoken as he met Arago's gaze. "This isn't to happen again. Any of it. Do we understand one another?" 

Arago's lips were pressed into a tight, slightly disapproving line. "Completely." 

"Good." 

Phileas turned to find Lady Bella leaning over the chair as she draped Verne's scarf around his neck and set his gloves inside his hat. One of the attendants came forward with Phileas' coat and helped him on with it as Lady Bella watched, holding Verne's coat over her arm. She took the second scarf from the attendant and draped it around Phileas' neck, her fingers lingering along the line of his jaw. 

"Good-night, Signor Fogg," she said, laughing lightly as he took her hand and kissed it. "I'll be ever at your side, as always." 

He took his hat, gloves and cane from her, finding himself easily matching her smile. God, but she was a beautiful woman - faithless, but beautiful. "Until you turn to someone else," he countered. 

She shook a finger at him, still grinning as she stepped away, but he saw her quickly brush her lips across Verne's forehead when she draped his coat over his lap. Phileas made a mental note never to play cards for money with Verne - he half-suspected he'd run a poor second in competition for Fortune's favor in that circumstance. 

"And will you say good-bye to me, as well?" said the dealer's voice from behind him. "Or do you intend to slip away like a thief into the night yet again?" 

There was no note of play in her voice, as there'd been with the Lady Bella. Phileas finished drawing on his gloves, steeling himself before he turned to face her. 

Her gloved hands were clasped together. He reached out and took her right hand between both of his, then brought her knuckles to his lips, kissing them gently. "Au revoir would be more appropriate, somehow." 

The response seemed to please her. "Yes," she answered, letting her fingers linger in his grasp, her left hand joining the tangle as he drew closer. 

"And, if you will excuse the liberty--?" He freed one hand to touch her chin, carefully holding the veil in place with his fingertips as he tilted her head slightly to one side. She made no move to turn away or dissuade him as he pressed his lips to hers through the netting of the veil. 

The kiss of Death, one step short of eternity and entirely too chaste for such intimates as themselves, was as entirely sweet and satisfying as he'd imagined. 

***** 

End of chapter 6 

***** 


	7. Part 7

******* 

**Jeux de Hasard - Part 7**

At first Jules thought the banging was inside his head. It was only after he sat up on his bed and opened his eyes with some effort that he discovered the banging was at the door to his room. Pushing himself upright, he staggered to the door, opened it, and stepped back. 

Fogg sauntered into the room, dressed and pressed to perfection, the white carnation tucked in the buttonhole of his coat lapel almost too bright for words. "Ah, good, you're up and dressed, Verne." He dropped a paper-wrapped bundle to the table by the window and opened the shutters - Jules shielded his eyes with his hands and blinked at the brilliant light - then turned. "Or maybe not yet undressed from last night?" 

Still trying to force his eyes to stay open for more than a few seconds at a time, Jules blearily looked down at his crumpled dress shirt and trousers. His shoes were readily located in the center of the room, his jacket and waistcoat on a chair. "I think I fell asleep as soon as we got back. When _did_ we get back?" 

Fogg leaned both hands on the head of his cane, wearing a wry smile that Jules found incredibly offensive, considering that his head felt fuzzy and about twice its normal size. "Don't you remember? It wasn't late when the cab dropped you here, definitely before two. I was back at my club well before three." 

"In the morning?" Jules winced at the incredibly high note of disbelief in his own voice. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher, took a few sips from it, then poured some onto his palm and slapped it half-heartedly on his face. 

"Yes." 

Jules tried to glare at Fogg, but he couldn't open his eyes fully, the light from the windows blinding him. "Could you - um--?" He waved futilely at the shutters. 

"What? Yes? Oh, of course." Still grinning, although with a bit more compassion, Fogg left his cane resting against the table leg and returned to the shutters, pushing then partially closed. "Better?" he asked, turning. 

"Much." 

His answer was little more than a croak. Jules drank the rest of the water from the glass, then poured the remains from the pitcher into the washbasin. Resisting the urge to drop his face into the water and drown himself, he splashed again, knowing the dress shirt to be a lost cause. "What time is it now? Six? Eight?" 

"Noon." 

"Noon?" Picking up a towel, he wiped most of the water from his face, his eyes only truly open for the first time that morning as he stared at Fogg in surprise. He paused, listening - a city clock had just finished the final tolling of the hour. 

"I thought we might have a late luncheon." Reaching into his pocket, Fogg withdrew a piece of paper and dropped it to the table. "A cable arrived this morning from Rebecca - she and Passepartout should return this evening with the Aurora. It seems their mission was been accomplished in record time." 

"Successfully, I hope," noted Jules, rubbing the back of his neck with the towel and then throwing it over the railing. 

"I'll gather we'll hear the actual details when they arrive." 

Slipping his bracers from his shoulders, Jules began to undo the studs on his shirtfront. He walked toward his dresser, turning his back to Fogg. "They're both all right, then?" he asked, unable to identify the worry that hovered at the back of his mind. 

"So it would seem. You had reason to suspect otherwise?" 

"No. Nothing. Just--nothing." Shaking his head, Jules removed his shirt and tossed it onto the bed; the collar, cuffs, and shirt studs he placed on the dresser. "Speaking of details, is there a reason why I feel like I spent last night slamming my forehead into a wall?" 

"Ah." He turned at Fogg's exclamation, caught a hint of a smile - or was that worry he saw in his friend's eyes? - and then turned back to the dresser in search of a clean shirt as Fogg said delicately, "I assume you're the worse for drink, then?" 

"I know what I feel like after a night of bad wine. If this is what the good stuff does to me--?" he winced, then lifted a shirt from the drawer. The precision of the fold and the clean smell meant that it had been part of the batch of laundry Passepartout had done for him on the Aurora. 

"I hardly think the Bordeaux at dinner was to blame, or the brandy afterward," said Fogg, albeit somewhat defensively. "They were really quite excellent." 

"They were." Jules shrugged into the shirt, then paused, thinking carefully of the night's events. He turned back to Fogg. "I don't remember drinking anything else." 

The comment won him a sympathetic smile. "That could be the problem." 

"I remember dinner - how could I forget _that _dinner? - and the cab. We were going back to the club, but . . . ." 

"We went to a casino," said Fogg. 

"Yes. You were going to show me how to gamble." 

"I've brought you that copy of Hoyle's I'd promised - second-hand," he added quickly, as Jules opened his mouth to protest the gift. Fogg lifted the paper-wrapped parcel from the table. "I thought a French translation might prove more useful to you. And, on a selfish note, I'm curious to see the differences in the translation." 

Shirt still unbuttoned, Jules took the package from Fogg's hand and placed it on the table. He picked up a knife, slipped it through the string and unwrapped the parcel. He was relieved to find it was a functional, pasteboard edition, instead of an expensive, leather-bound display copy. Something like this he _could_ accept, and graciously. 

"Thank you." He picked up the book and opened it, flipping through the pages, reading a word or phrase. 

"You prefer the French?" noted Fogg. 

Jules looked up and realized he'd smiled as he flipped through the book. His grin got a little wider. "It _is_ easier," he admitted, before glancing down at the pages again. "Some of the games I've watched you play seem so intricate. I wasn't looking forward to trying to sort out the rules _and_ make the translation in . . . my . . . head . . . ." 

The words seemed to leap off the page at him. He mouthed them silently, "Vingt-et-un." 

There had been cards on a baize cloth, one face up and another face down. His hand tapped the cards, requesting another card be drawn from the deck. 

"I played last night." The faint light sneaking in through the partially open shutter gave the room an odd cast, for he could have sworn Fogg went pale at his words. "Vingt-et-un." 

"A single trick." Fogg wore a faint, if rather formal, smile. "You won more with that one hand than I did in the previous three." 

"If I _did_ win, it was complete luck. Or you were helping me," he guessed, looking down to the book again and scanning a few more pages. "Or . . . both," he added, as another image came to mind - a green dress, green eyes, green gloves and hair the color of the first flush of fire, red-orange bright. "There _was_ a woman . . . ." 

"Verne, when you visit a casino, there's _always_ a woman." 

Jules chuckled at the note of exasperation in Fogg's voice and glanced up from the book. For an instant he thought he saw a flash of concern in Fogg's expression, which had now gone suddenly neutral. 

Black gloved hands - lace gloves, a woman's hands - dealing cards. 

Fogg raising one of those hands to his lips, kissing it with a triumphant, almost defiant air. 

And then-- 

"Verne?" 

Without moving, he stumbled. The book teetered in his hands and he caught it somehow, closing it with a thump. His knees buckled, the floor looked likely, but then Fogg's arm gripped his elbow, held him upright long enough to get a chair beneath him. 

His head was swimming. The book fell from his hands to the floor as he leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. "I don't remember drinking _anything_," he protested weakly. 

A moment later there was a grip on his shoulder. Fogg pulled him upright and pressed a glass of wine into his hand, then steadied his fingers as they shook around the glass. 

The wine was sweet. His eyes opened in surprise and Fogg nodded. "Just sugar - that'll help take the edge of that head of yours. Drink it." 

He did, finishing the glass, his hand steady enough near the end for Fogg to release it and leave him on his own. 

Fogg stalked away, hands tucked in his pockets. "My own fault," he said aloud. "One of those women no doubt slipped something in your glass. It didn't occur to me last night - I just thought you were the worse for drink." 

Jules stared down at the glass in his hand. The fuzziness in his head was starting to ease a bit. "Why would anyone want to drug me?" 

"Money." 

"But I'm not--" 

Fogg whirled on him, a finger raised to contradict him. "You were, to all appearances, a young gentleman of some consequence. Quiet, perhaps, but well mannered. You did cause something of a stir when we arrived." 

Swallowing, Jules looked up from the glass. "I did?" 

"Indeed." Fogg's sudden smile disappeared. "If I'd been less distracted, had been more alert--" 

Jules shook his head tentatively and, when it didn't fall off, added more force to his disagreement. He rose from the chair and placed the empty glass on the table. "Don't blame yourself, Fogg; you were worried about Rebecca and Passepartout." 

He'd meant the comment to calm his friend - if anything, Fogg's reaction was entirely contrary. He looked down at the floor, saying stiffly, "Was I?" 

"As was I." Jules walked over and patted him once on the shoulder, earning Fogg's careful attention. "We both know what her missions can be like. How dangerous they can be." 

"Yes," said Fogg softly. "We do. All too well." 

Jules ducked his head. "Besides, I'm - well, I'm embarrassed I let myself get taken in by a pretty face." 

"It was a _very_ pretty face, if it's the one I glimpsed." 

"Was it?" asked Jules, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. 

"Beyond imagining," promised Fogg. For an instant his expression grew serious, and then he walked back to the table and lifted his cane, balancing it on the backs of his hands. "She must have been sorely disappointed at losing you." 

Jules explored the pockets of his trousers, but found nothing but a handkerchief. "Maybe not," he said ruefully. 

Fogg turned quickly, the cane falling from his hands, but he snatched it from the air before it could hit the floor. "What?" 

He held up the handkerchief for Fogg's inspection. "You said I won a hand, more than you won in three, but there's no sign of my winnings." 

"Ah." There was relief in that one syllable, as well as a sense of mischief. Fogg touched one finger to his lips and studied Jules for a moment. "We'll have to remedy that, won't we?" Turning his back, he walked over to where the book had been left unceremoniously on the floor and picked it up. Fogg tossed it to Jules, who caught it, on his way to the door. "I've some arrangements to make before luncheon - meet me at that excuse for a bistro across the way. It won't be a decent meal, but it'll be quick enough for us to meet the Aurora and allow time for preparations for a trip to Monte Carlo." 

Jules looked down at the book, hefting it in his hands, then looked back at Fogg and shook his head in mock disbelief. "You can't be serious?" 

"Never more so." Fogg paused at the door. "You're right - you had my help when you won last night. This morning's events have proven that I'm a less than capable minder. It might be better for all concerned if you acquire the skill to win on your own behalf, should circumstances warrant." 

"It's not as if I'm ever going to be able to afford to play for money--" 

"There's more at stake than money," said Fogg sharply. "Men have wagered for the fate of nations and for lives - and not always their own." When Jules sobered at the rebuke, Fogg smiled and added, "Trust that my reasons for going to Monte Carlo are not entirely altruistic. It might be better not to mention anything of last night's adventures to Rebecca, either." 

Hugging the book to his chest, Jules chuckled. "Rebecca disapproves of your gambling." 

"Hardly," noted Fogg, with an affronted air. "It's that we're likely to catch merry hell for not having taken her along." 

"I thought respectable English ladies weren't supposed to gamble?" 

The comment had been innocent enough - Jules had very little experience with the upper strata of Parisian society, never mind the English, but one did hear things. He was startled when Fogg walked directly toward him, almost past him, and caught him by the shoulder. The grip of his hand was tight, almost fearsome and Fogg looked not at him, but past him. 

"A word of warning," said Fogg, in a low, even voice. "Should you ever use the word 'respectable' in that tone of voice about Rebecca in Rebecca's presence, she'll likely hand you your head on a platter." Then Fogg turned his head ever so slightly and met Jules' gaze. "And if she doesn't do the honors, I'll be more than happy to oblige. Is that understood?" 

"Absolutely," said Jules, swallowing. "I meant no offense, Fogg, honestly--" 

Fogg released him and clapped his shoulder lightly, his lips twisting into a wan smile. "I know." The smile grew genuine as he nodded, as if to assure Jules that he'd accepted the apology, then Fogg backed away toward the door, pointing at him with his cane. "What are you waiting for, man? Get dressed! If I'm not at the bistro when you arrive, you're to start your studies. I'll expect you to explain the differences between Euchre and Ecarte before we've finished coffee." 

"But--?" 

His protestations were met only by the closing of the door. Stunned, Jules stood there a moment, trying to figure out precisely what had just happened. He would never, in his life, completely understand that man. 

He tossed the book to the bed with a sigh and returned to his dresser. His shirt edge had turned under at Fogg's manhandling and he reached his hand to fix it, catching his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck in the process. 

The movement stirred a vague scent of perfume that clung to his hair. Jules stopped in mid-motion, frozen, as it brought to mind those green eyes and that flame-colored hair. Her fingers had played softly along his neck, her breath warm and sweet at his cheek. 

Beyond imagining, Fogg had said. That very well might be, for he couldn't remember much about her save her eyes and her hair. At a passing glance, he might not even recognize her . . . but for her perfume. He wondered, for a moment, if she would recognize him, if they ever met again. Surely not? 

But the thought made him grin. She might look out from her carriage and pass him as he walked in the street, never knowing that the common law student had passed as - what had Fogg called him? - a young gentleman of consequence. Not a bad idea for a story, that. Shakespeare used it often enough. Something to think about later. 

The collar fixed, he fastened his shirt buttons. Running his fingers through his hair to set it in place brought back the scent of perfume. He grimaced at the thought of enduring Passepartout's persistent questions - persistent because his non-answers would be taken as evasive. And Rebecca was as observant as a hawk. She couldn't fail to miss-- 

It suddenly struck him that if he showed up at the Aurora without making the least attempt to wash the scent from his hair, he would have the answer to his question. Would Rebecca, like an older sister, congratulate him on having attracted feminine attention or would he be subject to the same teasing revenge she inflicted upon Fogg? 

The prospect of either was enough to make Jules' mouth go dry. His hands moved to his shirt to unbutton it. He could fetch more water, have his hair washed, and possibly still be down at the bistro in time to meet Fogg, or perhaps only a few minutes late. One of the highest accolades in Fogg's book of chapter and verse was timeliness, but what else was there to do? If he didn't wash the perfume from his hair, he would know, one way or the other, exactly how Rebecca regarded him. 

He would know. 

It was an epiphany worthy of Saul on the road to Damascus. Jules stood for a moment, hands frozen upon the buttons of his shirt and realized that Fogg had been right - there were other stakes with which one could gamble, stakes more important than money. He could resign the hand, wash the scent from his hair and walk away from the table . . . and not know. But there was still the other option, to play the cards he'd been dealt and wait for the dealer's response. He might lose. 

Or he might win. 

He paused, considered, then made his decision. 

Refastening the one button he'd released, Jules grinned. He'd meet Fogg on time. For no discernible reason, Jules knew he should take the chance. He just felt . . . lucky. 

And there was absolutely no way in hell he was going to be able to tell Fogg the difference between Ecarte and Euchre before they'd finished coffee, not with the promising scent of that perfume still lingering in his hair. 

***** 

The End 

***** 


End file.
